“I thought I was going to die,” Violet said. “I remember being surprised when I lived.”

Daniel’s arm tightened around her shoulders. When Violet looked up at him again, she was stunned to see his eyes moist.

“What happened to Jacobi?” Daniel asked, his voice steady. “Is he still alive?”

“I don’t think so. He’s never tried to find me, in any case, and I’ve kept an ear out—to make sure he doesn’t spring upon me. After all this time . . . I believe he’s dead.”

“Ye left him? Good for you.”

“No.” Violet swallowed, the next part coming slowly. “I forgave him.”

“Lass . . .”

She shook her head. “I was only sixteen. There was no one strong in my life—not my mother, and I had no father. Jacobi came to find me. He was filled with self-loathing. He begged for my understanding. He said the red-bearded man would have killed him had he not paid. I believed him. The man was mean and cold and carried a knife in his boot. I had tried to reach the knife when he . . . But I never could.” Jacobi had been so ashamed, filled with the need to make it up to Violet. And she’d let him.

Daniel said nothing, only sat, his body warming hers as the fire slowly heated the room. This hideaway, with him, was safe, but Violet knew how easily safety could be destroyed.

When Daniel spoke again, his voice was quiet. “I know why you forgave him. You wanted everything to go back to the way it was before, didn’t you?”

He sounded as though he understood perfectly, as though he’d experienced the same need himself.

“I did,” she said. “But it never could be the same, could it?”

“No. It never can be.”

Violet gave a mirthless laugh. “I forgave him,” she said. “I stayed with him. That is, until he tried it the second time.”

“Dear God.”

“Jacobi gambled too much. He was forever in debt. When he tried to use me to pay again, not six months later, I had enough of my wits about me to run. I was fast, and the man he owed was too rotund and slothful to catch me. I took my mother and Mary out of our rooms that very afternoon, and we left Paris. I never saw Jacobi again.”

Daniel took her hand. He squeezed it between his, the strength of him immeasurable. “Lass, I am so sorry.”

Violet let out her breath. “Nothing to be done.”

Daniel released her, anger in his eyes. “Don’t sound so bloody resigned. What he did was monstrous. You trusted Jacobi, and he hurt you, in a way no father should hurt a daughter. In a way no man should hurt any woman.”

“But he wasn’t really my father.” Violet’s heart bit with old pain. “That was my childhood fancy. Doesn’t mean he returned the sentiment.”

“Don’t try to make this not his fault. It is nothing but his fault. I will find him so I can break his neck.”

“I truly believe he’s dead. I want him to be. I never want to see him again.”

Daniel remained in silent fury, and Violet leaned her head back on the windowpane, spent. The shutters were closed behind the window, keeping out the night and the wind, but the panes were cold.

Dredging up the tale had hurt so much, like tearing scabs from closed wounds to let them bleed afresh. It had been twelve years since the red-bearded man had touched Violet, less than that since she’d run from Jacobi. And still the pain was there.

Childish confusion had receded as adult understanding had come, but the anger, shock, and horror hadn’t died. Jacobi and his red-bearded creditor had killed young Violet that afternoon, making her disappear forever.

“So that’s why you hit me so hard in London,” Daniel said. “I put you in mind of the bloke, which scared you senseless, and you struck out.”

“Yes. I didn’t . . .”

Daniel’s hand clamped down on hers. “Don’t tell me you didn’t mean to. You did mean to, every bit of it. I scared you, and you tried to defend yourself. Only natural. But I’m not sorry I tried to kiss you. That I’m going to do again, and again. And I’m used to women trying to kill me, so no worries there.”

The cynical look in his eyes broke through Violet’s haze of pain. She remembered what he’d said when he’d walked her home from the theatre—she remembered every word of every conversation they’d ever had.

Everyone who hears my name knows my mother tried to off me with a knife when I was a tiny babe, before my dad threw me out of the way and stopped her.

“I’m sorry,” Violet said. “About your mother, I mean.”

Daniel shrugged. “I was a wee babe. Don’t even remember.”

“But it hurts you.”

Daniel let go of her hand, pushed himself from the window seat, and walked halfway across the cluttered room. “Are you asking for a look at my haunted childhood, since I made you tell me about yours?”

Violet started to say no, but she knew that was exactly what she wanted. She’d shown her shivering vulnerability, and she wanted to see his. “Yes.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Daniel turned to face her, crossing his arms over the shirt she’d ripped open. The shirt was open to his waist now, his brown chest exposed, the tattoo bared, his kilt sagging on his hips. He was delectable, but the folded arms shut her out, shut everyone out.

“Ye want me to tell you how I felt when I found out about my mum trying to kill me. Well, do ye know how I found out? My dad didn’t tell me. No. He never talked about it, though he was in the room that day, wrestling her down to take away the knife. I found out by whispers among the servants that my da killed my mum, and then the same whispers among the lads at school. And me not knowing what was the truth. The only person who knew for certain how my mother died was Dad, and he never told a soul, until he met up with Ainsley and gave her the tale.” Daniel balled his fists. “He wouldn’t even share it with his own son.”